Silent corridors. Suits of armour standing in the gloom, as night's deep caress is broken only a stray candle's flickering flame. He passes noiselessly, silent as a hunting lion. His eyes need no light; not anymore. He's used to the dark; finds comfort in the absence of light. His hood, wide and heavy, obscures any outline his face might have given away. He is wide and tall, obviously muscled, but nimble as a gazelle and light on his feet. he crosses the corridor without fail; he knows it like the back of his hands.

He enters a corridor with windows, and the outline of his appearance is made visible had anyone been around to see it. He wears a dark outfit. Brown hood and cape, black clothes. His belt buckle reflects what little light is present. The windows are high up and small; he would not have chosen this route if it had been any different. Voices coming from an adjacent corridor. He smiles inwardly, knowing exactly which teachers are doing their rounds there. On he walks, secure in the knowledge that none will notice his passing.

He strides take him up. Several shortcuts take him from the dungeon level to the fourth floor in a passage only a handful might have known about. Without fail, without pause, he continues on, higher and higher. He pauses momentarily at the base of the stairwell leading up to the astronomy tower. Breathing in the cool night's air, he resumes walking. His movements are fluid and powerful, measured just right; a warrior's movements. Efficiently striding up two steps at a time, his long legs take him up further, until he reaches his destination.

He walks to the edge of the tower, gazing down over the lake, the green lawn, and the castle. He tastes the air, smells the ancient powers at work protecting the castle and its inhabitants. His gloved hands moving in intricate patterns, he walks along the edge until he completes a full circle. Then, he moves back a step, and closes his eyes. An outsider might have thought him a statue, so still was his body. So still it remained for nearly an hour.

Suddenly: movement! His eyes open and his head turns to the lake. Ripples spread out over its surface as three creatures shamble out. In a blur of movement, he crosses the platform and jumps down the side of the tower; a hundred and fifty foot drop. His body increases in speed as gravity pulls down on him unrelentingly. He falls forward, and his feet find surface in the side of the tower. Running at incredible speed down the side of the tower, he hurdles down faster and faster, directly to greenhouse 3, which was currently inhabited by exactly one sleeping wizard.

Neville Longbottom was lying spread-eagled on a bed of what appeared to be grass, dandelions and clover. Deep in sleep, his mind as a blank, a side-effect of lying on dreamilions, his own creation. The flower, resembling a dandelion, was a symbiote that fed off the dreams of any creature sleeping nearby. The plant was fast becoming a trademark sign for those with troubled sleep.

Had he been awake, Neville would have seen the stranger racing down the side of the astronomy tower heading straight for him. He would also have seen the stranger's last step, pushing away from the astronomy tower with such force that the direction of his fall inclined nearly forty-five degrees. A deep, resonating pound sounded as the stranger landed deftly on the greenhouse, racing on over the roof without breaking stride. Neville shook awake, only catching a last glimpse of the stranger's cape flowing through the wind as he jumped off the greenhouse. Immediately awake, he grabbed his wand from his pocket and strode out after him.

The stranger, meanwhile, ran on. Crossing the green lawn of Hogwarts, he jumped up powerfully, flying up in the air nearly twenty feet, and crossing the distance between him and the creatures in one bound. Neville, coming through the door of the greenhouse, saw his leap, and froze in mid-stride. He watched as the stranger took hold of the middle creature's head an snapped it round violently as he made contact with the ground again. The sickening snap echoed over the lake onto the trees of the forbidden forest. The creature fell down limply, and the other two immediately changed direction. The group had been heading for the main hall of Hogwarts, but the flanking creatures now parted sideways in a perfectly orchestrated symmetrical pattern and halted thirty feet away from the stranger that had just killed their companion. The stranger, now stuck between the two creatures seemed unperturbed, and assumed a position that allowed him to easily keep both creatures in his sight. He seemed ready to jump at the slightest movement.

The impasse went on for what seemed like minutes to Neville. The creatures apparently seemed intent to take in the stranger's appearance. Like birds, they cocked their heads this way and that, obviously assessing the danger. Unlike birds, one of them eventually charged. The creature facing the stranger's back shot forward impossibly fast. As if no acceleration was needed, it flew forward, its maw opened revealing long incisors. The stranger seemed not to react, and Neville almost shouted out a warning until the stranger's body suddenly flew into motion. Grasping a sword Neville was sure hadn't been there moments before, the stranger side-stepped the creature's first attack and parried its second. The sword then moved in an arch at lightning speed, severing the head from the body completely.

The third creature was also in motion. It closed the thirty feet gap in less than a second and attacked ferociously. Each attack was parried with the moving blade, and though no blood flowed from either contestant, it was obvious one of them was winning. The creature attacked without pause, and the stranger was struggling to keep up the defence against the on-going barrage. When the creature made a snap for the stranger's head, he ducked deeply, avoiding the attack only narrowly, but making another parry nearly impossible. The creature immediately responded, slashing one of its sharp paws down. The stranger let go of his sword and made a complicated gesture with his hands. The paw came down, but it was as though it was suddenly locked; some form of resistance was pushing up against it. The creature responded by rearing up, adding its formidable weight to push in against the invisible barrier.

Neville ran forward, whipping his wand and shooting out a curse aimed for the creature's head. The curse hit its target, but without effect. He shot another curse, again without effect. The creature suddenly disengaged with the stranger and burst forward, shooting forward at an incredible speed.

'Neville!' the stranger shouted, 'No!'

Neville stood petrified as the creature came forward, maws opened wide. It was closing the distance fast, until suddenly the creature stumbled and crashed to the ground only feet away from him. The hilt of the stranger's sword was buried deep in the back of its head. Green blood was oozing from the wound.

'That was close,' the stranger said, as he collected the sword. He seemingly sheathed it in his belt, but when he turned around to check the battlefield, Neville noticed that the sword had disappeared again.

'Who are you?', he asked, 'and what are those?'

'These are Centurions,' the stranger said in a strangely familiar voice, 'Guardians. They are highly magical creatures not commonly found in our world. I expect even you haven't seen or heard of them before.'

Neville bent down to inspect the corpse before him. The creature was remarkable. Its head was unlike anything he'd seen before, with two mouths and three eyes. It was shaped somewhat like a potato, and the skin was a matted grey. The body was surprisingly limber, and seemingly built for both quadruped and biped movement. The paws had razor sharp edges, running all the way up to its knee.

'A formidable creature, I assume well worth a five star rating in "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them". These were runts, perhaps only a decade old.'

The stranger bent down at one of the creatures and placed a hand over its body. His face, which had remained invisibly throughout the entire battle, appeared to drop down slightly.

'You're giving them prayer?' Neville said incredulously. 'Why, this creature nearly killed me. I should just...'

Neville pointed his wand a the creature in front of him and muttered a curse.

'No!' the stranger shouted, his hands ramming Neville's wand hand away. The curse flew ineffectually over the lake. 'Centurions are noble beings. I will not have you desecrate their bodies.'

'Noble?' Neville scoffed as he massaged his wand hand, 'they tried to kill us.'

The stranger sighed. 'Alas, that they did. But you must understand; they are beings outside of the realm of good or evil. Singular in mind and purpose, they were created to do only what they were meant to do. We do not judge them as long as we know neither their purpose nor their motivation.'

'We?' Neville asked, obviously prying.

'We.' the stranger replied, obviously not taking the bait.

Again, Neville was struck with a sense of vague recognition. The hood was still obscuring any detail of the stranger's face, but the sound of the stranger's voice and the casual air with which he spoke seemed awfully familiar. Suddenly Neville realized something.

'How do you know my name?' he asked, recalling the moment in battle just before the stranger had thrown the sword into the back of the attacking creature.

'It is common knowledge that you are the Herbology teacher at Hogwarts, professor Longbottom.'

'True,' Neville said, 'but you called me Neville, not Longbottom.'

The stranger didn't reply. Instead, he walked up to another of the creatures, and again placed his hand on the creature's body. Then, he collected the creature's head and placed it on top of its body. As he turned toward Neville, the stranger saw two hands reaching out for his hood. Quick as he was, he was unable to prevent them from pushing the hood back far enough to expose his face.

'I knew it!' Neville said, as the stranger grasped his wrists in a vice-like grip. 'It is you!'

Ron nodded his head, releasing Neville's wrists slowly. His appearance was different now, in some places quite radically, but apparently Neville still recognised him. He looked straight at him, eyes bulging as he took in Ron's face.

'Y-You,' Neville stammered, 'You look.. errr.. Different.'

Ron barked a laugh at reverberated from the castle and over the lake. Birds that had taken refuge in a nearby tree took flight. Ron looked different indeed. His body was more muscular, more powerful, but that was the least noticeable of the changes. Ron was bald now, and a large scar ran from his forehead to below his right ear. Neville thought Ron's face was covered in tattoos, but he quickly saw that the symmetrical pattern of lines that crossed his face and ran down his neck to his body were just darkly pigmented parts of his skin. Had his skin colour been red, he would have resembled Darth Maul.

'Different indeed,' Ron said, a smile crossing his face. He quickly assessed if and how much he should allow Neville to know. The mere fact that one of their operatives was known to the general public would probably land him a serious talking-to. Still, the situation might still be salvageable. Having Neville on his side might come in handy.

Neville was still looking at him with a fascinated look on his face. It seemed as if a hundred questions were going through his mind. In the end, he asked the most important one:

'Butterbeer?'

'My tastes have grown to like something a bit more powerful, I'm afraid.' Ron replied.

'I've got a bottle of firewhiskey hidden in my office.' Neville said sheepishly.

Together, they entered Hogwarts and walked up to the second floor. There, Neville entered the men's bathroom. After a minute, he came back out, holding a bottle containing a dark red liquid.

'Got someplace quiet where we can open this?'

'I know just the place.'

Three hours later, Ron and Neville were sitting in greenhouse 4. The firewhiskey was nice, and it had had quite an effect on Neville.

'So, I've been talking about my life on Hogwarts for hours now, tell me something about what you've been busy with.'

Ron had been expecting this, and had made up his mind about what to do. 'Well, I guess you've noticed some parts of me have changed a bit. Don't need a wand to perform magic anymore. The changed appearance is a side effect of that. We've been monitoring the Centurions for a few weeks now, ever since the Petticoat disaster.'

'Celia Petticoat?' Neville asked, 'that murdered woman found in Diagon Alley?'

'Yup, talk about the wrong place, at the wrong time. Apparently, she ran a backdoor dragons's eyes dealership. Dragons's eyes can fetch quite a price on the black market, especially if they're from the same dragon. She had an appointment with one of the store owners. A below-the-counter exchange that was scheduled for some time before opening hours of that shop. As she floo'ed out of Diagon Alley's public chimney she stumbled across two Centurions.'

'Those creatures we fought just now?'

'Yes. Obviously, she didn't stand a chance. Might have saved her life if she had just stepped back into the fireplace, but alas, she didn't. We think she might have thought them valuable imported animals, and that she might have used magic on them. Wand magic is useless though. They were made to absorb that type of magical energy. Her curses probably just pissed the creatures off. Since then, we've been trying to find these creatures.'

'We?' Neville said, hoping to gain some information this time.

'We.' Ron replied, 'The Centurions leave specific magical footprints, like a trail of breadcrumbs, you know... We can't predict where they will appear, but the seem to be drawn to highly magical places.'

'So why hasn't anyone seen them before?'

'The Centurions are from another dimension, another world. They have existed seemingly since the dawn of time, and we have found records of them entering into our world only once. We don't know why they are changing their habits. It's.. out of character for them.'

'Another world?' Neville said.

'You know about how the several layers of reality are overlapping to form our own world, right?' Neville nodded to this, having no clue what Ron was talking about. 'Well, a highly skilled wizard can alter these layers to construct new dimensions, new realms of existence. It's bizarrely difficult. Most of these dimensions are obviously artificial, lacking several layers of reality, like colouring, smell or heat. The reality of the Centurions is a perfect balance of the layers though. It's like our own realm, but with its own set of rules and its own set of laws. Did you notice the colour of their skin? That mottled grey? In their own world, they have a vibrant, golden colour. In their own world, they are beautiful.'

Neville couldn't quite imagine how the grotesque monsters dead on the Hogwarts lawn could in any way be beautiful. Perhaps Hagrid might, but Hagrid wasn't really a reliable source for opinions about magical creatures...

Ron reached into a pocket of his pants and drew out a fragile, small egg. It was dark blue, and had little black specks on it.

'I've been running back and forth between Hogwarts and four other locations in Britain since we started our investigation. Though my endurance is great, I can't keep this up much longer. Would you mind standing guard over Hogwarts every Tuesday night? That way, I can get some sleep one night a week.'

'Sure'

'Keep this egg with you at all times. If Hogwarts is visited by the Centurions and I'm not around, break it. I'll know when it happens.'

Neville accepted the egg and put it away in his pocket. 'What happens if I sit on it? Or if it falls out of my pocket in front of a full class?'

'It won't. The shell can only break if you want it to. It can't break by accident.'

The sky overhead was brightening. Dawn was approaching to England. Ron got up and looked out over the castle.

'It never ceases to take my breath away,' he said, a note of nostalgia in his voice. 'You?'

'Every day.'

'It was nice catching up on old times, Neville. It's good to know some things never change.'

Neville nodded and got up too. He was shaky on his legs, remembering the five rounds of firewhiskey they'd shared. Ron seemed totally unaffected. Suddenly, Ron turned to face him, and grabbed his shoulders in a brotherly way. Neville did the same, and so they parted. Ron walked into the gloom of the forbidden forest. Neville expected him to apparate out a soon as he was off of the school grounds. Neville himself sauntered back into Hogwarts, awaiting breakfast. It was a Saturday, so the elves would be serving syrup pancakes.

It was an hour later that the first students began entering the breakfast hall. Some were freshly washed; the early birds that could get up no matter how early it was. Other came down with dishevelled hair; the ones that weren't self-conscious, the lazy boys. One of the first teachers to come down was Hogwarts's short, brown-eyed charms teacher. She sat down next to him, helping herself to some coffee and a bagel.

'You are never going to believe who I spent the night with.'

She looked at him with a wide smile. 'Finally made your move with Hannah, Neville? Took your time though.' She squeezed his arm in a sisterly way, before sipping from her coffee.

'Nope, but thanks for your words of encouragement,' he said morosely, thinking of the many failed attempts to let Hannah know what he felt about her, 'I met Ron.'

For just a second, she seemed frozen in time, her lips inches away from the cup of coffee she held slightly askew. Then, with an ever more shaking hand, she lowered it, until it clanged loudly onto its saucer, spilling some of its contents. Before Neville could react, she got up and ran from the breakfast hall.

'What's wrong?' one of the students asked him, 'Did you have bad news for professor Granger?'

The elevator doors opened with a soft whoosh. Out, stepped a man. Tired was his expression; weary of a long night of battle and talking. His strides were confident, as was everything else with him. The four long years of training, the experiment, the two years of solitude in the Himalayas; all of it had given him a near-perfect control of his body. Ron could have walked through Hogwarts with his eyes closed. He would have been killed by those Centurions had he not mastered the workings of his body.

He walked past the offices of Terry and Gillian. On the best of days that room was a death-trap, the metallurgist and alchemist concocting devious traps and innovative new designs for weaponry. It had become a running gag to bring a shield along when visiting them, after an intern had deemed it necessary. Still, the results of their work had become essential to the success of their division. Terry and Gillian were brilliant in their fields of work, and combining their skills led to whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. The room seemed quiet now, but you never knew...

Ron passed through a set of glass, automated doors. The room he had now entered was filled with cubicles, one for each pair of employees. The one nearest to the door was Luke and Perry's. It was reasonably neat, though their assortment of odd weapons and magical knick-knacks littered the desks a little. Next up was Roy and Jill's cubicle. She had a fondness for electronics, he for animated video's. It was brilliant to see how their whiteboard was now covered layer upon layer of posters, both of them trying to paste their own posters over the other's. Ron smiled inwardly. It was obvious Jill had a crush on Roy, but he either didn't know, or he pretended that he didn't. She spent half her time at the office looking at him, averting her eyes every time his eyes travelled her way. Ron could understand the dynamics of their relationship more than anyone else at the office.

Across from them was the pink and light blue cubicle of Nilima and Lianne. Nilima, ever the optimist, was a bubbly, sparkling little devil, ever busy making light jokes about the current situation. Ron had never met anyone that couldn't feel better after meeting her. Lianne, her partner, was quite the opposite. Tall and a little set, she was the department sarcast, ever seeing the negative side of things. How they came to be such close friends, and how the intricate interactions between them had never led to a fight was beyond him.

Ron was now at the final pair of cubicles. The blatant mess of his own cubicle (Ron was the only member of the team to work solo) was quite in contrast to the rest of the room. Though it seemed unorganized, Ron prided himself in being able to find any item in his cubicle within ten seconds. There had been talk (and even bets!) about his unorganised mess, but so long as it hadn't interfered with his work, his superiors simply didn't care. Ron sat down behind this desk and turned on the computer. He had one new email message from the Chief, telling him he was a week behind on his field reports, and hinting that if he hadn't received the reports by eight in the morning, Ron would be promoted to a field station in the arctic region. Sighing deeply, Ron booted the software and started typing.

An hour later (it was still very early in the morning) Ron saved his field report about his encounter with the Centurions and leaned back in his chair. He had been tempted to keep some things out of the report, and might have done so a few years ago, but Ron knew how important it was for the department that all activities by operatives were out in the open. His talk with Neville would surely anger his boss (secrecy about the department and its activities was one of the highest priorities), but he knew better than to lie about it. Instead, he had added transcripts of the entire conversation, and had even added a small biography to clarify some points of the conversation.

'Another long day of work', Ron thought, as he stretched out his arms, 'but not one without results.'

He suppressed a yawn.

'Tell me you haven't been posting at Hogwarts again?' a familiar woman's voice said from the cubicle across from his, 'You've had what? One night of sleep this month?'

'Two,' he replied, stretching out again, 'and we're only at the twenty-second...'

Simone smiled ruefully as she eyed him over her computer screen.

Simone had been with the department longer than anyone else (save the Chief), even Ron. She had reportedly been hand-picked from Auror Acadedy by the Superiors, and was one of the first to undergo the Experiment. She was an uncannily brilliant fighter, and prided herself in her mastery of Krav Maga. Ron had sparred with her several times, and had only won once. She was a year younger than him, and had attended school in Sweden, where she was born.

'You really are impossible, Weasley,' she said, rolling her chair back from the desk, 'patrolling a second location in your own time.'

'I told you before, Eriksson,' he replied, 'I have a hunch they are targeting magical places. Remember that first attack? Diagon Alley, we all know there's some dark things going about there. The Centurion in the Department of Transportation? It can't be a coincidence that there just happened to be a collection of more than a hundred portkeys there, to be used for the upcoming England-Germany quidditch match.'

Simone had gotten up and crossed over to his cubicle. They had been debating the Centurion attacks a lot these past few weeks at the office. The opinions varied widely, though most agreed with the Superiors's point of view, that the Centurions were targeting wizards and witches performing magic or carrying potent magical items.

'I know your view on the situation, but I still feel it's largely based on a hunch. There's no real evidence supporting your theory.'

Simone sat down on the edge of his desk, and instantly the tension between them rose. Simone was small, pixie-like, and lithe. She was wearing a plain, black skirt that at best reached down to the middle of her thighs, and a dark green tank top that clung to all the right places. Her naturally blonde hair was cropped short, further solidifying her resemblance to a pixie.

'I still think the evidence is just as valid as the evidence backing the Superiors's view.' Ron said. His eyes were trailing down slowly, from her face, past her bosom and her hips, to her legs. Her skin was milky-white, blemished here and there with a small birthmark. The pigmentation lines that resulted from the experiments were slimmer and curvier on her body than on his. They had a slightly blue-ish tint that matched the colour of her eyes. On the occasions that Ron had sparred with her, he had found out the lines had created a circular, maze-like pattern on her stomach. Her face was relatively clear from lines, compared to the others at the office. Her nose, round and very slightly upturned, was entirely free of them, as were her ears. Two thick lines ran down her face symmetrically, branching off into smaller, thinner lines that curled over her cheeks.

'You might be right', she said, almost as if it didn't mean anything, 'I guess the pattern will become clearer after more attacks.'

'It did.'

She frowned. Her blue eyes, normally fixed just momentarily on something before shooting off to something else, now pierced his eyes. 'Meaning?'

'Meaning I had a rough night, fighting a group of three of those bastards,' Ron replied, stretching himself out again for dramatic effect, 'not to mention having to write a field report about it.'

Simone apparently couldn't believe what he'd just said. Her eyes were still fixed on his, and she was stammering.

'Y-You fought three Centurions? By yourself? At Hogwarts?'

Ron smiled while he enjoyed her awe-struck reaction. Simone was very pretty, and he just couldn't keep from feeling thoroughly pleased with himself over having elicited this response. Their professional relationship had always been overlaid with a slight hint of sexual tension, one of the reasons he refused to be her partner when Greg (her previous partner and on-again, off-again boyfriend) had committed suicide. She'd been devastated by Greg's death, both untimely and unexpected. the Chief had suggested Ron to team up with her. Her performance at work had dropped to dramatic levels, and the Chief told him the Superiors wanted that corrected. Ron still thought the Chief was really trying to ease her suffering by distracting her, though he would never admit to such a thing. It wasn't three days after his refusal that a new recruit was introduced, and partnered with Simone.

As if on cue, the intercom sprang to life. Only one person actually used it, mostly to scoff at his employees. His working hours were unknown to them, and since the door to his office wasn't made of glass and he had his own fireplace, most of them never knew for sure if he was even present until the intercom sprang to life.

Bing! 'Weaseley!', rang through the office, 'My office! Now!'

Simone and Ron shared a quick glance. Another office joke had been the Chief's short messages on the intercom. Someone once loudly wondered what the average word-count was. Since then, everyone had been busy keeping track of it, and after half a year of jotting down numbers, they had found out the average word-count was five.

'I'm afraid you'll have to pen that down somewhere,' Ron said as he casually got up from the chair, 'I think the Chief just read my report.'

She smirked, a wide smile playing on her lips. Again, Ron's mind wandered off.

'Right,' he said, snapping out of his revelry, 'I'll be off then. If I never see you again, tell everyone I've had a decidedly swell time here, with all of you.'

The Chief had an office with a view. They operated on the 44th floor of the Canary Wharf Tower, and though the windows in the central office were blurred by magic to keep the operatives from view, his office's windows were not. He had a corner office, and the light of the rising sun was already bathing his office in warm light. He was busy typing on his computer, so Ron decided to sit in one of the chairs near his desk and wait. After about five minutes, he turned and focussed completely on Ron.

'I've just sent four emails to different Superiors demanding to know just how I'm going to clean up the mess you left behind.'

Ron was afraid this might happen. The Chief didn't take kindly on his operatives spilling classified information to civilians. The superiors were even worse.

'My mess?' Ron replied, slightly angered now, 'If I hadn't been there, on that tower, we'd be mopping up blood off the floors of Hogwarts now!'

Ron instantly knew he'd gone just a little too far. His department was small, and one of the pillars of their ethics was that they simply couldn't be everywhere at the same time.

'Your superiors decided what locations were going to be patrolled,' The Chief said, grabbing for a phone, 'if you don't agree with their decisions, by all means, call them.'

His point was valid. Ron was lower in the hierarchy, and would simply have to follow orders. Patrolling Hogwarts in his off hours was a choice he had made for himself, but on the job, he had to follow orders.

'I still don't feel this night was a mess. I stopped three Centurions from attacking a school full of children.'

His boss frowned. 'I wasn't talking about the Centurions. That was a great job. You botched things up when you imparted sensitive information to a civilian, this... Longbottom.'

'If this is about trust, I can vouch for Neville. He'll take this secret into the grave.'

The Chief got up from his chair. Again, Ron knew the situation in the room had moved into his disadvantage. The Chief rarely walked, and if he did, it wasn't going to be pretty.

'This isn't about trust, Weasley', the Chief said, crossing the room and pausing in front of the windows, 'It's about ethics and orders. It would have been both easier and faster if you had just removed that man's memory. You can't say you didn't have the chance, you were talking to him for hours.'

'I agree,' Ron said, 'but I felt that our first priority was to ensure nothing like this would happen again. Having Longbottom keep an eye open at Hogwarts allows us to better protect Hogwarts.'

'That isn't your decision to make. For now, we'll see how it plays out, but we will wipe his memory if nothing happens.'

The Chief and Ron had an interesting relationship. Though the Chief was his boss, and Ron technically didn't know anything about his past (nor his name for that matter) the two men had instantly taken a liking to each other. Though the physical differences between them couldn't be bigger (their only common denominator was that they were both bald), a deep-seated respect had formed between the two. Ron was in awe of the Chief's ability to head such a difficult department, and his omniscience (the Chief knew. Everything.). Ron knew the Chief respected his elevated status among the operatives. Ron had clocked more hours on the job than anyone else, and though he wasn't technically their superior, every one of his colleagues treated him as such. the Chief also tended to discuss his decisions regarding the operatives with Ron, valuing his opinion greatly.

Once dismissed, Ron returned to his desk to see that the others were arriving at the office. The workshop was already producing its usual cacophony of clangs and bangs, those back from patrol were jotting down their field reports, and Roy and Perry were practicing swordplay again, judging from the sounds of swordplay coming from one of the training rooms.

'Care for a quick sparring contest?' Simone said, as she turned off her computer, 'I could use a punching bag.'

'Ha ha,' Ron laughed mockingly, 'thanks, but no thanks. As.. tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to restrain myself.'

'Suit yourself,' she said, as she twisted lithely and took off in the direction of training room four. As she passed him, her hand gently brushed his arm, momentarily connecting one of the fine, circular lines on the back of her hands with the angular, dark-grey lines so very prominent on his lower arm. An image invaded his mind for a single moment, just as long as the lines were connected, and he could see himself sparring with Simone. Sweat was running down both of them, and Ron's normally baggy outfit was clinging to his body. He saw her knocking him off his feet with a well-placed sweep, then pinning him down on the ground, her face but inches from his. Their faces closing in on each other, the hot air of her breath making it hard for him to think about anything but her brown eyes. Her lips, parting just slightly as they were about to connect. Suddenly, the image was gone.

'Damn that woman,' Ron thought, 'Damn ALL women.'

Simone darted off, glancing in his direction only once, a face of false innocence clearly visible. Ron proceeded out the main entrance, and went down the elevator to the main lobby. Somewhere between the thirtieth and twentieth floor, he apparated out. Off to his apartment, to sleep.